Errands
by Ruthless Bunny
Summary: We show ourselves in the little details of existance. Vignettes of the mundane. Ch. 7 Starbucks
1. Stamps

**Errands**

_Dear House;_

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. When I forced you to take me on a date I thought I was breeching some emotional gap for you. I thought I could fill in your empty spaces. But it's been months and all I find is that I'm feeling more and that you seem emptier. This isn't good for either of us. _

_You, and Wilson too, believe that I become too involved with my patients. Perhaps I'm too involved with everyone. Every day I work, I'm absorbing pain, absorbing guilt. I want to do more, and all I do is drain myself._

_After losing so many, I find that I can't lose the one last person who matters. Me. So I'm leaving. I'm leaving the hospital. I'm leaving New Jersey. But mostly I'm leaving you. I can't heal you. Not until I heal myself. _

Cameron re-read the letter. It was full of self-pity, but today that's what she wanted to convey. He should pity her. He had messed with her mind, toyed with her emotions and in general dicked her around. Enough. It was Saturday. It was autumn. Brown leaves fell from the trees in the hot sunshine of the last week of September.

She addressed the envelope and debated whether to use her address labels; the ones she got from the humane society when she sent them a donation. The idea of adhering a winsome kitten at the top, left-hand corner of her letter amused her briefly. She decided to simply write her address. It was only after she had signed and sealed the letter, did she notice that she didn't have any stamps.

She got up from the kitchen table and stretched. Walking slowly down the bare walls of the hallway. In her house, growing up, the hallway was a gallery of photographs. Yellow, sepia, black and white, garish color photographs of smiles and hairstyles frozen in time.

The shower was hot and strong, pelting her as she scrubbed. Impossible to wash away the feeling. Fresh start, fresh smelling and yet the odor of death all about her. All fresh starts begin with death. Death of hope if nothing else.

She quickly blew her hair dry and slipped on an old sundress. Sunglasses protected her from the light and from the pitying looks of the curious. Why did such a pretty girl have such sad eyes?

It was a short walk to the high street. Convenient. A brief pause at the drugstore, perhaps after the post office she would stop in and buy all the things that could change her. Hair color, make-up, bubble bath and perfume. Shift the sight and smell of herself. Anything was better than what she was today.

It was a few minutes before noon and the line was full of people who were pushing the envelope of the Saturday hours. Cameron studied the four-color posters dangling by fishing line from the ceiling. Happy home-business owners extolling the virtues of Express Mail. She turned her attention to the sign itemizing the things one couldn't send in the mail. Gasoline. You'd think it would go without saying, yet, apparently, it didn't.

People wearily shifted bulky boxes from one hip to the other, or balanced them on the counter containing the postal forms. Customs forms for international packages strewn on the floor.

Cameron decided to use the self-service machines. She preferred the commemorative stamps; the ones with flowers, fruit or birds on them. But they only sold those over the counter, and there was no way she was standing in line just for that. How many things were sacrificed for expedience? She'd satisfy herself with American flags. What did it matter? They were stamps.

After the machine dispensed the stamps, she held the carnet in her hands. Three folds, seven dollars and forty cents. Twenty opportunities to… To what? She thought about the resumes she'd send out, change of address forms, all the other things associated with starting over. She thought about packing up her apartment, thought about being the new girl at a new job. It was too much. Her shoulders sagged. She took the letter and tore it into pieces and threw it in the can by the door.

She slid the stamps into her wallet and walked back onto the sidewalk. Perhaps a magazine and a cup of coffee, then she could plan the rest of her day.


	2. Dry Cleaning

Dry Cleaning

Chase finished his yogurt and threw the container in the trash. It balanced precariously on the pile of frozen dinner cartons, sports drink bottles and pizza boxes. He smashed it down and made a mental note to toss it when he went out.

He glanced around his apartment. Nearly every item had come from Ikea. Even then, he felt anxious with each purchase. His entire life felt temporary to him. He lived in fear. Fear that they would discover that he was a fraud. Fear that no one would love him. Fear that they would deport him. Most days it was a free-floating anxiety, a throbbing feeling of doom. On bad days he worried about each individual fear in a particular order. Deportation, fraud, love. Working from smallest to largest. The only thing that kept him from indulging in some kind of medicinal palliative was the ever present example of House and the memory of his mother. Every minute of his life was a battle not to succumb.

He went into the alcove that served as his bedroom. Although he made good money as a doctor, he felt uncomfortable with luxury. Even the luxury of a separate bedroom. He went into the closet and gathered his cleaning. Every Saturday he took his laundry into the Kims.

Chase drove to the strip mall where the laundry was. He walked through the glass door and waved at Mrs. Kim as the bell rang. "Hi Dr. Chase!" She said enthusiastically.

"Good morning, Mrs. Kim. How's Mr. Kim?" He asked as he piled his laundry and cleaning on the counter.

"He took the girls to soccer." She said, while tallying his clothes. "He's proud of them."

Chase nodded and watched as her fingers flew across the computer. A minute later a receipt ground out of the slot and she handed him his copy. "Next Saturday?" She asked.

"Yeah." He drawled. "You got last week's for me?" He took a few bills from his pocket in preparation for setting his bill.

"Sure. Sure." She said, disappearing into the back for his fluff and fold. She laid the paper package on the counter and went to the rack to search for his cleaning. "Oh, I almost forgot. You want to look through some unclaimed laundry? I'll make you a good deal on it."

Chase's eyes lit up, "Yeah, anything good?" He asked as she reached for the rack behind the counter.

"You like this jacket?" She held up a pink Lauren dinner jacket.

He vaguely remembered something like it on 'Queer Eye for the Straight Guy'. "How much?"

She considered for a moment, "Ten dollars?" He nodded, waiting for the next item. She held up three shirts. "Good quality."

"Ten for all three?" He asked.

"Eleven?" Mrs. Kim was no soft sell.

"Okay, Eleven. Anything else?" He peered over the counter in anticipation.

She shook her head. "No, just some pants. Ugly." She made a face.

"Let me see them." Chase said.

"No. Not for you." She shook her head.

"Come on, they can't be that bad." He smiled at her, infusing it with as much charm as he could muster.

She shrugged and reached back for them. "See. Ugly." She laid them down on the counter. They were mostly synthetic, with maybe a fraction of wool or cotton. "Besides. Too big."

Chase checked the size and saw that she was right. He ran his hand across the fabric, it crackled with static electricity. Reluctantly he let them go. "Yeah. Okay. So twenty-one for these and here's for last week." He gave her the bills which she put in the till.

"Doctor?" Mrs. Kim started to ask.

"Yes?" Chase gathered up his belongings.

"Can I ask a personal question?" She looked down at the linoleum floor.

He waited, not really wanting to answer a personal question; he nodded, encouraging her to go on.

"Why do you buy our things? You can afford nice, new clothes."

Chase thought for a moment. How could he explain to her about why things like clothing and furniture and cars weren't important to him? Should he tell her about the seminary? No, she didn't really want to know about any of that. He shrugged, "They're just clothes. I wear a lab coat over them anyway. No one notices what I wear."

"Oh. Thanks. See you next Saturday then." She waved as he exited the store.

Chase opened the back door of his sedan and hung his shirts on the hook in the back. He heaved the package into the back seat. He glanced up and down the street, deciding where to go next. He decided the grocery store could wait until after he had a cup of coffee.


	3. Vet

Vet

Wilson noticed it again, that _click, click, click_. Rex, their golden retriever walked, or rather, tap danced, his way across the oak floors in the kitchen. "Julie? When was the last time we took Rex into the vet to have his nails clipped?" He called into the family room where Julie was drinking coffee and watching Home and Garden.

There was a pause, did she just huff? "I don't know. When did you take him last?"

Oh. It was like that. He looked up the number on the list on the fridge and found that they could take him, if he could get there in fifteen minutes. "I'm taking Rex to the V-E-T." He called back into the family room.

"K." She said back, leafing through an edition of Veranda. She had been talking about re-doing the mud room.

He got the lead and stooped down, talking as he attached it, "Who's going for a ride? Wanna go for a ride?"

Rex gave him a puzzled look and woofed when he heard the word ride. His feathery tail swished back and forth as Wilson led him out of the house and into the Land Rover.

As Wilson started the engine he swore the needle perceptibly moved downward. He backed out of the driveway slowly. Neighborhood kids were playing hockey in the street, so he waited for them to move out of the way before he headed slowly up the street.

When they bought this house, in this neighborhood, they did so because of the schools. It had been three years since then. Looking around his disappointment was acute. Now he was thankful, thankful that the children for whom they had bought the house, failed to materialize.

He had a flash where he fantasized about the tragic accident that would kill Julie. She wouldn't suffer, but she would ascend to heaven in a robe of white. Then he felt guilty. Rex barked at a poodle in the car next to them and he came back into himself. He shook his head and cursed at himself for thinking such an evil thought.

Rex barked again when they pulled into the vet's office. Rex wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he did remember enough about what happened in that building to be wary. "Come on, you big baby!" Wilson pulled on the lead and Rex dutifully jumped out of the passenger seat.

"Hi Rex! Hi Dr. Wilson!" Jeri chirped from behind the counter. "Susan's waiting for you in the back."

She showed them into the room and Rex jumped up on the steel table without too much protest. Susan made quick work of clipping his nails. He didn't even whimper.

"He's a good boy!" She said, letting her voice go up an octave on the last syllable. Rex barked in agreement and she gave him a biscuit. She checked his chart, "He's due for an update on his shots in a few weeks." She said to Wilson.

He nodded. "Thanks." They left and Rex seemed antsy. Or was he just projecting his feelings onto his dog. As Wilson pulled out of the parking lot, he steered away from home. In his mind he wasn't avoiding his house; he was taking the dog for a ride.

He slid the moon roof back and let the cool autumn air into the cockpit. He turned up the radio and tuned in an eighties station. _Sister Christian_ played and melancholy crept over him. That was the song he remembered most from high school. It reminded him of graduation and for him it symbolized everything about starting his adult life. Where was he going? What was he looking for? Motoring.

Rex looked at him, trying to read his thoughts. Wilson pulled into a Burger King and ordered a plain burger for him. At least Rex was happy.

Where else to go? He was tired, too tired to go back home. He headed towards the only place it made sense for him to go. The dog park. Everyone there was always happy to see Rex, and some of the female dog owners were happy to see Wilson.

Just one more stop before heading out. A cup of coffee and the newspaper.


	4. Wal Mart

Wal-Mart

He drove around the parking lot for fifteen minutes looking for the perfect space. As he predicted it was a madhouse. Saturdays always were. Families buying their weekly supply of toilet paper. Students stocking up on bulk packages of ramen. The people who just feel the need to wander the aisles of the store in search of "targets of opportunity." This is how his father had put it when he was a kid. It wasn't on the list, but it was too much of a bargain not to buy. House didn't make a list. He rarely came to places like this, convinced this is what Sartre had in mind when he said, "Hell is other people."

Finally an SUV weighed down with three kids in soccer uniforms and what appeared to be a year's supply of Capri Sun pulled out of a desirable space. House's definition of desirable was close to the front, some shade and NOT a handicapped spot. He zipped in and applied the parking break.

Was it worth it? Did he want this game cartridge that badly? He thought about doing another round of Mario and pressed on. Damn him for not coming last night. Damn that damn Jack Daniels.

A kindly old lady in a blue vest smiled at him and nodded in greeting. "Can I help you?" She asked, clutching a sheaf of smiley face stickers.

"Games?" He asked.

"Well, we've got the toy department," She pointed to the left, "Or sporting goods," also to the left.

"Video games?" He clarified.

"Oh, past magazines, books, greeting cards and candy." All the way in the back of the store. "Have a wagon Hon." She pushed a massive grocery cart towards him. "Or would you like me to have one of the boys bring you the motorized cart?" She said in a low voice.

House was offended. That was the one thing he'd never do. Use that lame-assed motorized cart. On the other hand…he glanced the expanse of the store. No. He took the cart and hooked his cane over the handle. He had no intention of buying anything, except the game, when he came in, but even now as he glanced up and down the aisles, he saw things that he needed. Things he couldn't get at the small market on the corner.

He took the cart and muttered a small '_thanks_' to the greeter. The first thing he did was grab an enormous bottle of Finesse. His current bottle of shampoo was so empty that it kept falling out of the wire contraption designed to hold things one would need in the shower. Right next to that was an eight-pack of Zest. That too went in the cart.

He pressed on, up the center aisle. A display seemingly built out of pallets and cardboard boxes showcased candy. Specifically Circus Peanuts. House fondled the bag of nearly squishy, orange sponges. A woman with three kids clinging to her basket also looked at them. "Does anyone still eat these things?" She asked him rhetorically.

He shook his head, "Did anyone _ever_?" They shared a small smile of amusement at the absurd. He moved closer to the shelf with the chocolate. He scanned for his favorites and treated himself to a ten-pack of Chunky with Raisins. It had been years. He threw some Hershey's Miniatures into the basket as well. As long as he was here…

He tried to get past the men's department, but was arrested by a rack with T-shirts. He realized that it might have been years since he had anything new. He quickly found three that he liked, in his size. Underwear was next. He found the boxer-briefs and swept his arm along the shelf and they fell right in. He also grabbed some flannel sleep-pants. For those cold, lonely nights. Lonely? Where did that come from? He pressed on.

He sniffed the air. He was nearly knocked out by a profusion of smells. Berry, vanilla, cinnamon. Candles and incense. Incense. He hadn't thought of that since high school when he used it to cover the smell of…he smiled. He found the traditional holders, a long wooden trough, decorated with a small flower where the stem went. He grabbed a box of sandalwood sticks. Both together were less than two dollars. A small price to pay for nostalgia.

Finally he made it to the video department. He went to the counter to ask the guy with the keys to fetch his game for him. It looked like a souk in Marrakech. Dozens of people stood around trying to get the attention of one of the blue-vested kids working the counter. He made his desire known and as he waited for his treasure to be delivered to him, he checked out the DVD display. He grabbed a couple of action movies and pitched them into the cart as well. As 'Hi, I'm Dave' rang up his game, he thought for a moment that there was a corona around the plastic covered box. It glinted in the harsh, fluorescent lights. He took his game and tucked it into his jacket pocket, close to his heart.

He soldiered on through the store towards the check-out stands at the front. He passed the hardware department and grabbed a tube of Liquid Nails. Some stuff around the house had become loose, and this was as good a remedy as any.

Through the cleaning products he found detergent, fabric softener and clever devices designed to keep his socks mated in the wash. If only those items worked for people. A small plastic disc that would keep people from drifting apart from each other during agitation.

Sundries were last, he had toothpaste, but it was probably time for a new brush. He threw a stick of Degree on top of the chocolate. Impulse caused him to toss Axe-Apollo in for good measure. He'd be fighting them off with all his good smells. He paused briefly in shaving cream and razors. Nothing in that aisle made it into the cart.

He got into a line that snaked through the groceries. Who bought the cake mixes, cans of green beans and tortillas at Wal-Mart? Who was so desperately out of food while shopping for bubble bath that they bought it here? Then he spied a can of chili. Okay, now he knew. People like him.

The girl at the register, 'Hi, I'm Ja'Netté', said, "Hi, did you find everything okay?" without enthusiasm as she scanned his purchases.

House nodded and tried to keep up with the bag-go-round of his new things, putting them all back in the cart as they wheeled around. He swiped his card and took forty-bucks back in cash. Saved him a trip to the ATM.

He had to move some stuff around in the trunk, but got everything to fit. As he slammed it shut, he glanced back at the guy who was waiting for his space. He made a big show of limping to his door and of easing his way into the driver's seat. Just to be perverse.

He started the car and pulled out of the space. Then it hit him. He had to schlep all that stuff into the house. His leg throbbed and he realized that it was time for a dose. He pulled onto the street and decided that he needed to rest-up before attempting it. He wanted a shot of caffeine and a slice of low-fat lemon-blueberry coffee cake.


	5. Car Wash

Car Wash

A bright sunny day was perfect for cleaning the Four Runner. He rolled into line and waited for the guy to come. He glanced up at the board showing his options. Deluxe was $49.99, but it included the floor mats. He glanced down at the mass of crumbs, leaves and other detritus that had accumulated on the floor. What the hell?

The man came to the window in shorts and a work shirt with the sleeves rolled up over enormous biceps. "What'll it be?" The guy asked with the pen poised over the ticket like a waitress.

"Deluxe please." Foreman opened the door so that the attendant could drive it up to the vacuum stations.

"Good choice." He scoped out the rims and seemed disappointed that they were factory rather than custom. Foreman smiled, remembering Chris Rock's take on the spinning rims. "What fragrance you want in here?"

"What are my choices?" Foreman stood outside his idling vehicle waiting for the man to take it off his hands.

"Pina colada, new car, cherry, musk and baby powder." The guy waited.

"Which one won't give me a headache?"

"Baby powder." The guy tore off the ticket and directed him to the building to wait.

Foreman nodded at him, "Thanks man." The guy was already driving it away.

Foreman lined up to pay behind a woman with a Mercedes key ring, Louis Vuitton bag and a wireless cell phone headset on. "So do you want the platter, or do you want a salad?" He backed up to avoid having to listen to her conversation.

He looked around. A bin of cheap CD's. A rack with greeting cards. A cooler with soda and a freezer with ice cream. He glanced through the frosty top of the freezer at the ice cream bars and novelties. The only one he'd consider, Fro-Fruit Coconut, appeared to have contracted from loss of moisture. Never mind. He'd get something else.

He flipped through the cards. In the back of his mind he knew that Cameron's birthday was coming up, but he didn't think she'd appreciate the humor in the crass greetings.

When he got to the counter he paid for his car wash and looked over the cashier. She was a nice looking girl with a little too much jewelry. Giant hoop earrings dangled back and forth as she talked on the phone with a friend, "No, he didn't tell me that. His baby-mamma been asking him for child support. I told him that a box of diapers wouldn't do it. No. That's his _child_." She looked up and rolled her eyes in sympathy. _Thank you_ she mouthed to him as she handed him his change. He smiled back at her. All over America, women were having that conversation with other women.

He stood at the plate glass window, watching as the cars inched through the car wash. His truck stood, soapy and wet as the fringed cleaners slowly _thwaped _across the surfaces. When he was a kid he used to love sitting in the car going through the car wash, it was like Disneyland. Not an E ticket, more like a C. Fun, but not Splash Mountain fun. Did they still have tickets at Disneyland? Probably not. If he referred to something fun as being an E ticket, would anyone get the joke? Probably not.

As his truck exited the car wash, a group of young men descended upon it with towels, drying quickly to prevent water spots from forming. Foreman walked out onto the covered patio where fat guys drinking out of McDonalds coffee cups read the paper while they got their cars buffed.

The gang then took out spray bottles and quickly polished the glass, in and out. A couple of wipes for good measure and the perfunctory squirts of perfume spray and the brother in the Fubu pants twirled the towel over his head. The universal car wash symbol for: _Your car is ready_.

Foreman slid a ten into the tip box, hoping that they could see that he wasn't stuck up and that he appreciated the job they had done on his ride. It looked and felt new. Nothing like a clean car to lift his spirits.

He pulled out into the Saturday morning traffic. That coconut ice cream called to him. He had a taste for coconut now. Big time. He thought about getting a Mounds, but that wasn't going to cut it. It had to be cold. Frappucino. With a squirt of coconut syrup. Perfect.


	6. Bakery

**Bakery**

Cuddy put on her shoes and stuffed her pantyhose in her purse. Glancing behind her, he slept noisily. She debated whether or not to take a shower here, but if she remembered the last time, he only had Zest soap and Finesse shampoo. Home. Why is it they never went to her house?

House. She shook her head. Home. That's where she wanted to go. Driving down the empty streets early on a Saturday it seemed that the town belonged to her. Once she got in her door she kicked off her shoes, threw her purse on the table and shrugged out of her clothes.

She headed for the bathroom and started the shower. When she renovated, she had installed a waterfall showerhead. Standing under it she sighed in satisfaction. There were dollars you spent that you never regretted. Regret. No. No inclination for regret.

A small dab of Phytocitrus shampoo emulsified between her small hands. She lathered through her long hair. At her age most women had cut their hair, she couldn't. The scent soothed her as she massaged her scalp. The gift basket she got from a board member had not gone to waste. She used the L'Occitane soap, and followed up with the almond shower oil. Unapologetically high maintenance.

Shifting into a white, cotton nightie she slid into her bed to grab another few hours of sleep. She loved sleep stolen in daylight; it felt decadent.

She awoke refreshed. All in all, things were right in her world. She turned on the radio and listened to classic rock as she did some stretching.

Normally, she'd log in and check e-mail, catch up on budgets or something else; but she declared a moratorium on work today. Today she was devoting just to herself. She did check her calendar.

Damn. It was Gretchen's birthday. Damn. She was responsible for the cake. There was no way to avoid going out.

She threw on a pair of jeans and her favorite red corduroy jacket. The color made her feel better. She decided to change purses. The weekend called for informality. She checked her closet, crammed full of her frilly, delicate clothes. In the back was her favorite Louis. Denim lined in red suede and accented with red leather and gold chains. It was ostentatious and WAY too expensive, but it cheered her up. Except that she wasn't depressed. Much.

A pair of red Keds and she was ready to bounce out the door. She found a parking space right in front of the bakery. She pushed through the glass door and stood in line. Weekends were busy. Lovers sharing croissants and coffee at the café tables by the windows. Ladies buying day-old challah for tomorrow's French toast. Little kids whining for their free cookie.

Cuddy took a number and examined the cases to see what she might want. Gretchen loved chocolate. There were a few different options. Flourless chocolate cake. Death by Chocolate. Chocolate Love cake, decorated with candied rose petals. That was the one. Romantic.

When had all the romance gone out of her life? Were there no more surprises? Was everything either an item on her agenda, or an impulsive action? How many more poignant reminders of the thoroughly temporary nature of her personal life would it take?

Looking around the bakery, the customers seemed so alien. Why didn't she let her lover take her out for pastry in the morning? For whom would she make French toast? Would she ever have an impatient child to placate with sweets?

It didn't matter. She had what she wanted. She was who she wanted to be. Dean of Medicine. Not many women accomplished that. Not many women would sacrifice for that accomplishment. Although, some days she wondered why she did.

Not today though. Today she resolved to be happy. The sun shone on a cool autumn day. This was her life and she belonged to it.

She waited until the harried counter-girl called on her. In no time the cake was wrapped up in a pink box with white string. There was also a white, waxed bag holding an apple turnover. Breakfast.

Rather than eat it there, Cuddy thought about where she could get a really _strong_ cup of coffee.


	7. Starbucks

**Starbucks**

Cameron inhaled deeply and held the smoke. She blew it out slowly. Her head swam and she enjoyed the gentle buzz as she flipped through her magazine. Chai tea and clove cigarettes made a good combination.

The café table was just big enough to hold the magazine, her cup and the ashtray. The orange box of cigarettes hung precariously at the edge of the table, waiting for someone to jostle them off.

Each glossy page of Allure gave her tips on new things to do to her appearance. The bag at her feet contained a highlighting kit, eye-shadow, three lipsticks, bath salts, shampoo, blue nail polish and Red Vines. Her evening stretched before her.

One more drag on the cigarette. The filter tasted sweet on her tongue and the smoke plumed up as she sucked on it; tars and resins depositing themselves on the rough paper.

"You know that's really bad for you." She looked up. Wilson stood in front of her with a very stupid-looking golden retriever. The dog panted and wagged his tail. She smiled slightly at the idea of dogs resembling their owners.

"I remember something about that in school," she admitted. She stubbed it out in the small plastic ashtray, "Guilty pleasure."

"Don't let me stop you." He felt bad; it was probably her only vice.

"I've got the rest of the pack and a weekend ahead of me. I'm pacing myself. Who's your friend?" She indicated the dog, who decided to lie down on the cool sidewalk.

"This is Rex. Our dog." Rex glanced up at the mention of his name.

"Hello, Rex." Cameron addressed the dog.

Rex moaned and rested his head on his paws. "He's a bit tired. I was taking him to the P-A-R-K, but maybe I'll just sit here and hang out. Would you watch him while I go in for a coffee?"

Cameron waved her hand, "sure. Why not?" She went back to her magazine and Wilson disappeared into the store.

She decided that she wanted to smoke another. The best part of the cigarette was the lighting of it anyway. She reached for the pack with her left hand while turning a page. It had moved. She looked up and saw House holding her kretecs. She wished that she had something brilliant to say; instead she turned back to her magazine, face burning red in embarrassment.

Rex got up and put his nose in House's crotch. "Get away you flea bag." He muttered at the dog, while patting him on the head. "Dog watching?" he asked, pulling up a chair at her table.

"Momentarily," she sat back and closed her magazine. She sipped her tea, waiting for him to say something.

House took in the scene. There were so many conclusions to leap to. Where to start? "So what's your oncologist say about the cancer sticks?" He shook the pack and inhaled their aromatic aroma.

Cameron sipped her tea and smiled enigmatically, _what was he thinking_?

"May I?" He shook one out and reached for her box of matches.

"It's your funeral." She watched, fascinated, as he inhaled.

It occurred to him that it was so easy to become addicted. The quick hit, the sweetness, the complexity. "Interesting choice of words."

She shrugged. He puffed and watched her. Rex closed his eyes. Wilson came out carrying two cups. "Here. I saw you arrive." He handed a vente coffee to House.

"No cake?" The two men sat down, eyeing each other suspiciously. Cameron leaned down to pet Rex.

"Didn't realize you were staying." Wilson said affably.

"I am." House leaned back, taking another drag on the cigarette. "Cameron, how do you stand these things?" She noticed that he was still smoking it.

So many smart-assed remarks. _I like all kinds of caustic things. They seem harsh, but they're sweet once you get to know them_. She dismissed them. She wasn't in a glib frame of mind. She just exhaled in his face, smiling.

He put his in the ashtray and took a sip of coffee. "You know Wilson it's funny running into you here. Isn't your Starbucks across town?"

"I was out running an errand; it was close." Wilson reached for the burning cigarette and murdered it under his flip-flop on the pavement. "Makes my eyes burn," he explained.

House sipped and said nothing. Cameron exhaled again in House's direction and made no move to extinguish hers. She kept it in her hand, daring Wilson to assault her for it.

"So Allison, what brings you out?" Wilson asked.

She motioned to her bags and smiled, again inhaling. She batted her eyes at him while she held the smoke. Truthfully, she was slightly giddy, but she enjoyed messing with their perceptions of her. She let it dangle delicately from her fingers. Rex experimentally sniffed at it, but expressed no interest in exploring any further than that. Slowly she exhaled. Waiting.

"Oi!" Four head turned in the direction of the greeting. Chase regarded the scene, it looked friendly enough.

"G'day mate!" House said, affecting a bad Australian accent.

"Cracking onto Cameron here? What's with the durry?" He indicated the cigarettes.

"What?" House squinted at him in confusion.

"Sorry. Thought you savvied the lingo. Back in a mo." He disappeared into the store.

Now House and Wilson were confused. Cameron continued to drink her tea and smoke at intervals. Saying nothing.

Wilson turned to House, "Doing anything later?"

House shook his head, "Nope. Come over, keep me company." _Help me drag my shopping into the house_.

"You want to come?" He politely invited Cameron.

She snapped out of her reverie, still groggy from the cloves, "'scuse me?"

"Do you want to come over to my house?" He asked, enunciating each word.

"Oh, I don't know…" She looked at her bags, her evening of indulgence on one hand, or an opportunity to spend time with House on the other.

"Do it tomorrow. It'll keep. Unless you plan on going to church." He gigged her just to keep a hand in.

"We'll see," she said, reminding him of his mother.

Chase returned with an iced coffee and grabbed a chair. "So everyone just showed up here?" He seemed relaxed and happy; taking big gulping swallows of his coffee through a straw.

Wilson chuckled, "apparently. It's a popular place."

Cameron had smoked most of her cigarette, so she stubbed out the rest of it. She smiled drunkenly at the men, who regarded her warily.

"What's next on the agenda? Quart of bourbon? One-night-stand?" Someone really should have brought him some cake.

"Is that what you're offering?" She smiled sweetly at him.

"Wait until he throws in the pizza." Cuddy said from behind her. "What smells like Christmas around here?" She set her bag on the table next to them. "Watch this for me while I get something inside." She didn't ask.

"I guess we're watching that for her." Wilson confirmed. They all looked at the bag. "You know a pizza doesn't sound half bad. We could watch the game."

"What game?" House asked.

"There's always a game." Cameron said.

"What's _your_ game?" House asked, his eyes giving the sentence at least four meanings.

Cuddy returned with Foreman in tow. "Here's the rest of the party." She said, indicating that he should sit at the table with her.

Foreman laughed quietly, "fancy all of you being here." He slurped up his Frappucino. "Ow!" He rubbed his forehead.

"Breathe in hot air." House instructed. Five mouths opened slightly to say something obvious. "Oh, get an imagination," he groused.

Cameron was torn. On one hand she wanted to follow him home, like a puppy, all enthusiasm and naïveté. On the other, would it be better to just walk away slowly?

Foreman's headache subsided, "did someone forget to send me the memo?"

"It's kismet." Cameron pronounced.

Cuddy swallowed and took a slurp of her coffee. "It's not that big a place. Bound to happen some time."

"Luckily it's not awkward or anything." House said, gently crushing his empty cup.

Cuddy fixed him with a glare, "what makes it awkward?" She put another piece of pastry in her mouth and chewed. Savoring the sweetness.

Cameron reached for another cigarette, but House took the pack and moved them beyond her grasp. "You've had enough."

Chase concurred, "you look like a koala; all high on eucalyptus." He laughed.

"Koala's get high on eucalyptus?" House asked.

"Yeah. They just stay in the trees, stoned out of their little minds." Chase did an impersonation of a stoned koala.

Cameron and Wilson laughed.

"There's something to try." House said to himself.

"House." Cuddy despaired.

"What? I'm not allowed to have fun? What am I supposed to do between forbidden liaisons?" He might have gazed too long into her eyes. Cameron might have noticed. Wilson might have groaned.

"House." Cuddy warned.

Foreman hit Chase on the arm, "Hey, I'm meeting some fellas for basketball, you want to come?"

Chase nodded and slurped up the last of his coffee, "Yeah. How do you play basketball?"

Foreman smiled indulgently. "We'll teach you."

House watched wistfully as the two prepared to leave, "Don't you mean you'll school him?"

Foreman nodded at the remaining group as he left. "See you Monday."

"Well Cuddy, it looks like the popular kids have left. I guess it's just us, a pizza and a ball game." Wilson smiled in anticipation. Rex got up and stretched. Cameron rolled her eyes and vacillated.

"Gee House, that sounds great, except I've got plans tonight." She balled up the bag and handed it to him to put in the trash can behind him. "Thanks for the offer though. I'll take a rain check." She rose; her handbag elegantly looped onto her arm.

"That's the one thing you can count on. There will always be a rainy day."

"Thank you Doctor Doom." Wilson intoned.

House stood, as did Wilson. "So, what's it going to be Allison? Coming with us, or another night listening to vagina music and taking bubble baths?"

She held out her hand for her cigarettes. He handed them back reluctantly. She leaned over to get her bag, giving both men a quick peek down her dress. She stood and was about to decide when Wilson's phone rang. "Hey. No, just stopped at Starbucks. I was thinking about hanging out with House for a while."

"Hi Julie!" he shouted into the phone. "I'm his alibi," he informed Cameron.

Wilson turned around and put his finger in his ear.

"Oh. What do you bet that he's being summoned home?" House said conversationally. Cameron shook her head. She was hungry and thinking about some leftover salad she had in her fridge. "So?"

Wilson flipped up his phone. "Apparently Rex and I promised to go to Home Depot to pick out cabinetry for the mud room."

It was House's turn to be confused. "Those are all English words, but they mean nothing when you put them in that order. I'm being ditched then?"

"Pretty much." Wilson rubbed his shoulder, "Come on Rex, we have to go home."

"Oh well, I still have Allison here." He waited for her to confirm. "Don't I?"

"You still want me to come over?" She clutched her bag.

"Or I can come to your place." He offered.

"For the game?" She started walking towards her street.

"If that's how you're playing it." He said.


End file.
